


Collingwood Debutantes

by PhryneFicathon, Scruggzi



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Female Friendship, Fighting the Patriarchy, Fluff, Mac flirting like a boss, implied teen drug use, implied teen sex, teenage drinking, these two were rapscallions, with sartorial elegance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-05 23:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16820980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi
Summary: Forced to move to England by her parents, 16-year-old Phryne decides she needs one last night out with her best friend Mac.





	Collingwood Debutantes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> Mac and Phryne's friendship always made me so very happy and I love the idea that the two of them as teenagers were already an unstoppable force - even if they were still becoming the awesome women they would eventually be.

“Do I really have to go?” Phryne’s tone was plaintive and woebegone, the pure, platonic example of a 16-year-old girl, the Collingwood twang in her voice repressed a little in hope of currying favour.

“Yes, you do.”

Margaret had tried so hard with her older daughter, tried to teach her how to be a lady, despite their less than salubrious surroundings, to keep her from growing up wild on the streets of Collingwood like some kind of vagabond. It had always been a losing battle, but now with Janey gone, Phryne was more wayward and unreachable than ever. She had hoped that the news of their newfound wealth and the move to England could be a fresh start for them all. A way to escape the shadows of Melbourne and the haunting presence of Janey’s ghost around every street corner.

Of course, Phryne had not seen it like that.

“I don’t see why I should have to go. I don’t know anyone in England.”

“Well I’ll be there, and your father.”

Phryne had to bite her lip to stop herself correcting the statement to ‘anyone I like’ although Margaret could read the sentiment easily enough on her daughter’s face. It was a hard thing to lose a child; it would have been such a comfort if Phryne had been – well, a comfort – but that was not the girl’s way. She was headstrong, selfish and angry. At her father, at herself, at Margaret. God only knew what the girl got up to in the hours she spent ‘visiting friends’ as far away from the slummy little Collingwood cottage as possible.

God might know, but doubtless he did not approve.

“I could stay here. I could get a job,” the expression on her mother’s face prompted Phryne to change tack at once, “or I could go and stay with Aunt Prudence and help her look after Arthur.”

Margaret actually laughed at that. The idea that Phryne would last more than ten minutes in her Aunt’s care without disappearing over the garden wall was utterly ludicrous – not that Prudence was likely to take her. There had been a recent incident with an antique, crystal wine decanter which was unlikely to be forgotten in a hurry.

“It’s not a punishment, Phryne. It will be an adventure. You are always saying you want to see the world.”

Phryne looked at her feet, scuffing her boots on the threadbare carpet. She did want to see the world, it was true. But not yet, not whilst there was a chance she might still find Janey. Besides, there was plenty of adventure to be had here in Melbourne. Only last week she had persuaded Vick Freeman to take her up in his aeroplane; a little more persuasion and he might even let her fly it herself.

“Of course,” Margaret continued, hoping that bribery would help persuade her, “you will need a proper wardrobe. You can’t arrive in England looking like a street urchin. I’ll make an appointment for you at Foster’s.”

That got Phryne’s attention. New clothes had not been a regular occurrence in their household and the few things she had been bought – usually by Aunt Prudence – had been ‘put away for best’. A euphemism for ‘kept out of Henry’s way in case he hocked them for liquor’. Her days were spent in second hand flannels and rough boots – and in as much trouble as she could possibly find. Those times where she got to bathe in Prudence’s huge bathtub, dress in soft silk and muslin, it made her feel like another girl. Strong, powerful, beautiful; she could hold her own with the gang boys in patched cotton and hand-me-downs, but in silk and lace she felt like she could rule the world.

A thought occurred to her then.

There was only one of her Collingwood friends who was allowed to accompany her on the occasional visits she made to her Aunt Prudence. Shy, clever Elizabeth MacMillan was one of only a few other girls at Warleigh Grammar that Phryne had actually liked, and when she had graduated and begun her training as a doctor, Phryne had made a point of staying firm friends. The last time they had been at Rippon Lea it had been to practice for a dance recital which Phryne had been dragooned into by her formidable Aunt. The two girls had raided some boxes of old clothes in the attic in an attempt to look the part, and Mac had ended up going home with one of Edward’s old cravats; a deep red silk creation that stood in stark contrast to her usual browns and creams.

Having to leave Mac behind was one of the main reasons why Phryne was reluctant to go to England, even as the whisper of adventure and the wide world called to her. She widened her eyes in the expression of innocent pleading that often got her her own way – although less often with Margaret than with many others.

“Mum, can Mac come too? I’d like to get her as a present…to say goodbye.”

Sighing, and deciding that whatever the expense, this might be the only way to get Phryne onto the ship without an escape attempt, Margaret agreed.

***

“I can’t imagine why you thought I’d enjoy this Phryne.” Mac groused.

She was dressed in a plain tweed skirt and cream blouse, oversized and shapeless; her mission in life as far as clothes were concerned had always been to draw as little attention, especially male attention, as possible. She had never understood the feminine preoccupation with the subject and preferred to think about it as little as she possibly could. The idea of wearing a ‘ravishing gown’ of the kind Phryne had been happily speculating on for herself filled her with an intense feeling of disquiet, a wrongness she couldn’t quite articulate. She supposed she should be grateful that Phryne had offered to buy her such an expensive gift, but honestly, she felt more than a little hurt that her best friend could know her so badly.

“Oh, cheer up Mac. You’ll love it, I promise.”

The couturier Margaret had chosen was situated in a large, well-appointed house at the fashionable end of town. Phryne of course was utterly unfazed by its grandeur and Mac did her best to follow her friend’s example and walk like she owned the place. It was a skill Phryne had in spades and she was a little envious of it. The only space Mac felt she truly owned was the study room in the university library, where she could be left alone to gorge herself on knowledge without any irritating interruptions.

The woman who answered the door had dark blonde hair, elegantly styled in a simple chignon. She was in perhaps her mid-thirties with a handsome face, slightly undermined by a haughty, pinched expression, as if she was constantly sucking on a lemon. When she spoke, the feigned gentility of her accent was in constant danger of slipping into the friendly drawl of the Melbourne dockside.

“Ah, you must be the newly Honourable Miss Fisher, I was told to expect you. My name is Miss Foster, head seamstress. If you and your companion would like to follow me, we will see what we can do for you.” She did not sound as if she thought it would be much.

Phryne of course strode across the marble and rich carpet in scuffed boots as if she was not in every way as out of place as she could possibly be. Mac saw Miss Foster wince at the marks those boots were leaving on her carpets. Margaret must have promised the woman a great deal of money for her to put up with this.

Once they had reached the parlour, Miss Foster gave each of the girls an appraising look, taking in their size, shape and general demeanour. She lingered on Mac, her gaze tracing the lines of her skirt and blouse in an appraising manner which made her feel strangely naked. She flushed, her eyes on the floor and hardly noticed when Phryne was ushered out of the room in the company of another young woman, the pair of them talking eagerly about the possibilities inherent in lilac silk.

Once they were alone Miss Foster smiled, apparently relieved to have fobbed the little ragamuffin off on one of her employees and offered Mac a drink which she accepted gratefully. This ordeal was going to require a little in the way of Dutch courage.

“I’m afraid this sort of thing,” Mac gestured around at the fine furniture - almost spilling her drink at the glimpse of a house model, wafting through in a whisper of satin and lace on her way to attend elsewhere, “isn’t really my area of expertise. I can just wait here whilst Phryne decides on fripperies, no need for you to waste your time.”

Miss Foster shook her head decisively.

“Nonsense, my girl. You just need to find your style, and unless I’m very much mistaken, your style is a suit.”

***

Phryne was doing her damnedest not to cry. She had already said her goodbyes to Vick. There had been tears and kisses and promises she doubted either of them would keep, whispered softly into naked skin. She was going to England, and he was going to war. It was unlikely they would ever meet again.

Tonight would be much, much harder. She had already lost one sister, and now, thanks to her good for nothing father dragging her halfway across the world, she was about to say goodbye to another. Mac, her best friend and sister of her heart. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. But at least she could see her friend off in style.

They had agreed to meet at a hotel for drinks and dancing, something their mothers would have strenuously objected to had they known about it. Excuses and surreptitious exit made, Phryne headed towards the tram stop. Mac had said she had a surprise for her and as her own new wardrobe had recently been delivered by Foster’s Fashion Emporium, Phryne had a sneaking suspicion Mac might have received hers as well. Foster’s were well known for their gentlemen’s tailoring as well as their ladies’ couture and judging from the receipts delivered to her mother along with Phryne’s wardrobe, she had been right to trust Miss Foster with Mac’s ensemble.

Making a dramatic entrance was something that Phryne was deeply fond of, although usually they involved things such as an unexpected escape from police custody, or a prelude to a fight with one of the neighbourhood boys. Today she had something new in mind and whilst she was looking forward to seeing Mac kitted out in her finery, she was also very keen on the attention her own outfit was likely to gain her.

The entrance hall leading to bar and ballroom where she had arranged to meet Mac was the perfect mix of grandeur and shabbiness; grand enough to make her debut as a Lady worthwhile, downheel enough that a 16-year-old would probably not face swift eviction from the premises for attempting to drown her sorrows.

She was doing her best to ignore the pinch of the new purple dancing shoes; she had spent all day practicing moving in them and was really rather proud of the results. The addition of the heels let her stand taller than usual and there was an uncharacteristic swing to her hips. She felt every inch the lady and doubted any of the Bootlace Boys – the gang of which she had been made an honorary member after knocking Reggie Kettle’s front tooth out for lagging – would even recognise her.

She sashayed into the ballroom, her fingers stroking the soft fox wrap which covered her shoulders. A young man in a hotel uniform, who could barely be older than she was, offered to take it from her and she thanked him civilly, deploying the refined accent her Prudence sponsored elocution lessons had taught her to imitate. She shed the comforting layer of fur without a second thought, eager to get a reaction to the dress underneath. The widening of the boy’s eyes as he took in the gorgeous drape of lilac silk and the deep aubergine at the bust which hinted at her curves and showed off her lithe, fashionable figure to perfection, was deeply gratifying. He was quite good looking too, perhaps if Mac agreed she could convince him to accompany her to a more private location later in the evening.

For now, she simply nodded and made her way towards the bar, her eyes scanning the room for Mac, although so far there was no sign of her. Perhaps she’d had more trouble escaping her mother than Phryne had escaping Margaret. She set a gloved hand lightly on the bar top and pondered the range of drinks on offer. Of course, she was not legally allowed to purchase any, but legality had never really bothered her, and she was confident that in this dress she could pass for 18 easily enough. Besides, she had no intention of actually paying for anything herself.

Sure enough, it took less than a minute for a young man who had been watching the dancing with interest to approach.

“I beg your pardon, Miss, but I cannot conceive of letting such a lovely young lady go unchaperoned in a place like this. Please, allow me to be your escort for the evening.”

Phryne smiled at him, he was perhaps in his late teens, fair haired with hazel eyes and a light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He was clean shaven, although possibly this was by nature rather than intent. His clothes were rich and fussy, his body language a mixture of youthful nerves and the arrogance of wealth. This probably explained his forwardness and the slight lack of social skills that had him standing just a little too close to her. Phryne had a suspicion that his bluster was being laid on a little thick, so possibly this was a ruse to put her off her guard. Still, she had picked the pocket of many a wealthy young man over the years and she was intrigued to find out whether a well-placed dress could convince this one to do the job for her.

“Oh, but I’m not alone, Mr..?” she trailed off, letting him fill in the blank.

“Rodger, that is Mr Rodger Hawthorne, but I’m Rodge to my friends.”

“Delighted to meet you Rodge,” she extended a hand encased in ivory satin and allowed him to brush a kiss against her knuckles, “the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher. And as it happens I do have a companion this evening, I was intending to meet her here, but she must have been delayed.”

“Luckily for me.”

He turned to the waiter and ordered two ‘special’ gin martinis to be brought to his table without asking Phryne what she wanted and offered her his arm. Phryne found the boy a little pompous for her tastes, but she had no objection to gin for which she didn’t have to pay and decided she could tolerate Rodge’s company until Mac elected to make an appearance.

The drinks, when the waiter brought them, were unexpectedly pink.

“My father used to drink pink gin in the Navy,” Rodge explained, proffering the glass to her, “it’s sweeter than the usual and I developed quite a taste for it.”

Phryne however had stopped listening entirely.

She had initially been distracted by a mildly entertaining spectacle taking place on the table behind Rodge, where a young lady was apparently in the process of being wooed away from her unfortunate date by a young man in a top hat, who was puffing delicately on a small cigar as he leaned against the table. The woman’s date seemed more amused than angry – despite the way the interloper had completely monopolised his companion’s attention.

Phryne had been intending point the little scene out to Rodge, in the hope he might share the joke, but at that point the ‘young man’ turned around and Phryne saw who it was.

“Mac?!”

She was out of her seat in a second, Rodge and his pink gin entirely forgotten, and wrapped her friend in an entirely inappropriate hug. There were mutters from some corners of the bar at this, but the hotel was not exactly The Grand, and for the most part the impropriety went unnoticed.

“Mac, you look like such a fine gent I hardly recognised you!”

“Well if it isn’t the Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher! England’s not going to know what to do with you!”

The band was still playing and although they were barely on the edge of the dance area, where couples were moving through the steps of a foxtrot, Mac whirled Phryne around and dipped her low before righting her, both girls in a fit of giggles.

Mac farewelled the young lady she had been outrageously flirting with, whose name was apparently Helen, by kissing her hand – a courtesy she did not extend to the woman’s date, whose name she had never troubled to learn.

“Come along P, I have a table and a bottle waiting for us.”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” Rodge had approached once again, but now Mac was here the boy had served his purpose and Phryne didn’t especially want him hanging around.

“Ah, Rodge. This is my chaperone, Miss Elizabeth MacMillan. It was very gallant of you to keep me company whilst I waited but I shall have to bid you good night.”

She fixed him with a dazzling smile and for good measure, snatched the drink he had bought her from the table they had just vacated – no reason to let that go to waste – then she made off towards a table in the corner without a backward glance. Rodge was left staring stupidly after them, a surprisingly vicious scowl marring his otherwise bland features.

“Put that ridiculous thing down at once, I got us a decent bottle of red.” Mac looked at the sticky pink confection with suspicion and poured Phryne a glass of merlot. “Glad to see the loss of your boyfriend isn’t weighing too heavily then.” She nodded her head in the direction of the unfortunate Rodge, who had returned to the bar in the hope of finding a more enthusiastic companion.

“Hardly, that was just a little fun – a very little - but at least he bought me a drink.” Mac continued to eye the said concoction dubiously and Phryne shrugged and took a large and unladylike gulp of wine before continuing.

“Vick, well...even if he comes back who knows if I’ll ever see him again. I’ll miss him, of course, but I always knew he would sign up as soon as he turned 18, it’s all he’s talked about ever since I’ve known him.”

“It feels wrong to say I’m happy for him, but I know it’s what he’s always wanted.”

“Little Charlie’s taking it harder than I am I think. Poor kid.”

Mac nodded, sipping her drink and Phryne, who did not want to dwell on the subject of yet another parting, decided to turn the conversation towards something much more cheerful.

“Speaking of romantic entanglements, I feel I may have interrupted a very promising conversation between you and that young lady. You looked about ready to sweep her off her feet right in front of her poor, oblivious beau.”

Mac, who was an intellectual force of nature but had never been one to stray into the spotlight socially, smiled smugly. She had drunk a large measure of her mother’s cooking sherry before leaving the house in her new outfit and was feeling relaxed and more certain of herself than she could ever remember feeling. She had entertained herself in Phryne’s absence by flirting with every good-looking woman in the room – something she would never have considered before this evening. Some of them had even flirted back. It was quite a revelation. She lit another cigarillo and leaned in conspiratorially.

“I think it’s the trousers. You should get a pair.”

Phryne giggled into her wine, accepted Mac’s proffered Gauloise and lit it.

“Can you imagine what my mother would say?”

The idea certainly had merit. Finding new and interesting ways to send Margaret grey was one of Phryne’s favourite hobbies and the woman richly deserved it.

“She’s still making you go then?” asked Mac, correctly interpreting the look on Phryne’s face as that of a girl calculating the potential benefits of petty vengeance.

Phryne rolled her eyes and took a long drag on the cigarillo, puffing out a cloud of bitter smoke towards the ceiling.

“She is. I’ve done all I can to persuade her, but we leave next week. I even suggested I stay with Aunt Prudence.”

Mac let out a laugh loud enough to draw attention from neighbouring tables.

“You wouldn’t last a week.”

Phryne shrugged, unable to argue.

“At least it will be an adventure. You’ve always wanted to travel. You could ditch the old baggage somewhere near the Cape of Good Hope and go exploring!”

The suggestion was going a bit far even for Phryne, but it did at least bring a rueful smile to her face. She sighed, downing the last of her wine and pouring another large glass, staring into the dark red liquid as if it held answers. Mac, of course, could read her like a book.

“Staying here won’t bring Janey back, Phryne. She’s gone, and she would never have wanted you to trap yourself here out of some vain hope of finding her. Besides, if you have to go, you might as well make the most of it. Unless you are hatching some kind of escape plan?”

Phryne scowled into her wine and pointedly stole another of Mac’s French cigarettes as payback for her blunt honesty. She was right of course. Damn her, she was always right. She shook her head at the question of escaping. She had considered running away, of course she had. But the truth was she simply couldn’t bring herself to put Margaret through that loss again. Not after what losing Janey had done to her.

The band struck up a new song, something modern that Phryne hadn’t heard before.

“Would the Honourable Miss Fisher care to dance?” Mac asked with a wink. The wine and the trousers were going to her head, and she decided it was about time to start cheering Phryne up.

Phryne grinned, jolted out of her melancholy by her friend’s delightful and uncharacteristic enthusiasm. Mac was an excellent dancer in the privacy of Aunt Prudence’s parlour. When Phryne had been forced to learn modern and ballroom as part of her mother’s futile attempts to make a lady out of her, she had discovered to her surprise that she rather enjoyed it – not least because she had a natural grace and athleticism that meant the skill came easily to her. Nevertheless, she had balked at the idea of letting any boys practice with her before she knew what she was doing. Mac had stepped in to take the male part, but Phryne had never seen that side of Mac revealed in public before. She had hoped the suit would help build her friend’s confidence but had never imagined it would be this much of a success.

Mac rose and held out a hand, stubbing out her cigar in the glass ashtray next to the wine with the other. She was smiling, relaxed, her soul infused with a strange kind of certainty. It felt a little like being in class. Mac was one of only three women to study medicine at Melbourne University, and the first and only one to get a scholarship to do so – much to the incredulity of some of the faculty and many of her classmen. The shyness that she hid behind outside the University walls had never followed her to class. When it came to science, her voracious intelligence and total disinterest in flattering men’s egos were assets that let her thrive. She thought nothing of standing her ground amongst scholars – they might not think of her as an equal, but she made them respect her knowledge. She was so different there from the shy little girl she pretended to be on the outside, where male attention was never focused on her intelligence. It was an indescribable feeling to bring that part of herself, the part that refused to apologise, out into the world. To look at other women the way men did, to flirt with them, to have them flirt back.

She glanced over at Helen, the woman she had been talking with when Phryne first spotted her. She still did not seem that interested in her date. Perhaps later on, if Phryne agreed, Mac might be able to tempt her to join them at a less reputable venue…

Phryne and Mac stepped on to the dance floor and proceeded to dance up a storm. Spinning and whirling, Phryne’s dress swirled around her like smoke, Mac dipping and lifting her effortlessly. They drew a few sneers and a few cheers, the spectacle of two women dancing adding a little edge to the evening’s entertainment for the hotel’s patrons. The pair laughed together, delighting in their friendship and these first little steps towards the women they were becoming; the women they would strive to be. Dr Elizabeth MacMillan and The Honourable Miss Phryne Fisher, mantels waiting in the wings to be picked up and worn with pride, each one a fitting reward for all the battles they had yet to fight.

There had never been anything romantic between them. Perhaps they knew each other too well. Perhaps that was why it was Phryne that Mac had trusted with her darkest secrets and Mac that Phryne had turned to at her lowest moments, when Janey was taken, when it was clear she was not coming back. There were very few people Phryne could show true weakness around and it would be many long years before she learned to do so around anyone she wished to seduce. Mac on the other hand tended to be more comfortable with male company, specifically older men who showed no indication of covert romantic designs. Women were a little too dangerous, a little too tempting, a little too confusing for her to completely trust. Phryne had always been different; she was the sister Mac never had, the one person she could tell anything. The only person to whom she had told everything. It would be such a wrench to have her leave, but maybe some things would be easier if she was forced to do them alone.

Phryne appeared to be thinking similar thoughts. “I feel I may be standing in the way of a very promising evening for you, Mac. That woman you were busy distracting when I arrived hasn’t taken her eyes off you since we stepped onto the dance floor.” She smirked, clearly pleased at the success Mac was having in her ensemble.

Mac blushed, delighted by this news, and resisted the urge to crane her neck round to look – instead spinning around in time to the music in the hope of making her curiosity less obvious. Helen was watching them intently; her dinner companion appeared to have given her up as a bad lot and she was alone. She looked wistful and intrigued and perhaps a little envious, but when Mac shot her a flirtatious smile she blushed hard and looked down at her empty glass. Nonplussed, Mac returned her attention to Phryne, who was busy making eyes at the young man taking coats by the door. Perhaps she had been mistaken.

The music came to an end and the pair wandered back to their table – dancing was thirsty work and they both felt in need of refreshment. Once they reached it however, an unrealised plight quickly became known.

“Only one glass left,” Phryne lamented, pouring out the last of the wine for Mac. “I fear that leaves me with Rodge’s kind offering.”

She glanced over to the bar and noticed that Rodge had approached Helen and appeared to be attempting the same routine that had already failed on Phryne. She sipped at the drink which looked to be the man’s one useful act of the evening and made a face.

“It tastes like someone distilled fairy floss and mixed it with turpentine.”

Mac began to laugh at her friend’s reaction but stopped when she saw a look of deep concern pass over Phryne’s face as she glanced back down at the offending drink.

“Mac, take a sip, just a small one. Please, tell me there’s nothing to worry about but gin in here.”

Slightly confused, Mac took a cautious sip: the initial sugary assault on her taste buds overlaid a bitterness that she recognised at once. She felt a slight numbing of her lips and a dizzy lightness to her head that went far beyond the properties of gin.

“Laudanum.” She whispered in mounting horror.

Young they might be, but both Phryne and Mac could imagine a number of explanations for why a young man might want to slip opiates into a woman’s drink and none of them were good. Mac’s head snapped round in search of the man in question and was horrified to find him deep in conversation with Helen, and apparently on the verge of plying her with exactly the same vile concoction that he had attempted to dose Phryne with.

She was out of her chair in a second, Phryne hot on her heels. She too had spotted the danger the other woman was in and the Bootlace Boy in her was screaming for Rodger Hawthorne’s worthless blood. Mac got to the table just in time to snatch the drink away from Helen, raising it to her nose for a sniff. Her face darkened still further, her eyes on Rodger, who was looking like he wanted to find a place to run.

“I don’t think you’ll like it, Helen. The stuff’s foul. Here,” she passed the drink back towards Rodger and snatched up the glass in front of him. The cloying, sugary smell was still overpowering, but the bitter edge of the laudanum was nowhere to be found.

Helen looked too taken aback to speak for the moment, glancing back and forth between Rodger, who had gone bright red, and Mac, who looked ready to punch him.

“What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” The man was trying for anger but the emotion in his voice was making it crack around the edges and he sounded frightened.

“It seems the bartender has mixed up your drinks Rodge,” interjected Phryne with a deadly sweetness, gesturing to the opiate laced cocktail in front of him. “Why don’t you drink up. You can have mine too if you like. I can’t say I cared for it myself.”

“What the devil are you girls playing at?” he blustered, clearly still hoping to avoid culpability for his little scheme.

Helen appeared to be wondering the same thing and turned to Mac looking more confused than angry about the interruption.

“What’s the matter Elizabeth, what’s wrong with that drink?”

“This bastard has been buying women drinks and dosing them with laudanum. Probably hoping for an opportunity to take advantage.”

Helen looked at Rodger in horror, then back to the drink. She had only accepted out of politeness, and disappointment over the beautiful redhead she had been talking to earlier, but who had apparently found more interesting company.

“What were you going to do Rodge?” Phryne hissed angrily. “Wait until we looked ready to pass out then offer to play the gentleman and escort us home?”

The man’s strained cry of “Preposterous!” was as good as a confession, but they would never be able to prove it, not to the point where anyone would listen. He was a gentleman, they were teenage girls, and Phryne was underage and out of bounds. It wasn’t exactly as if they could call the jacks.

“Drink it.” Mac shifted the glass that had been Helen’s further towards him.

He shook his head, face going from red to white, clearly unwilling to comply. Phryne leant in close and whispered in his ear, her affected genteel accent replaced by a rough street drawl.

“You’re going to drink it right now, sunshine. And if you ever try this shit again I’ll cut your tackle off and shove it up your arse.”

She drew back, enjoying the way his eyes had dilated with fear and tossed Mac the little bottle of tincture she had picked out of his jacket pocket.

“Or of course we could just hand that over to the police.” She added, her enunciation sharp as cut glass once again.

They were probably empty threats but appeared to do the trick, Rodger downed the drink, shuddering as the bitterness hit his throat. Phryne stalked back to her table, picked up her abandoned drink and placed it in front of him. He drank. He’d be out cold in five minutes and serve him right. Phryne nodded and pocketed the laudanum. He could get more easily enough but she’d be damned if she was going to give it back to him. Besides, she didn’t exactly object to a little opium if she knew what she was getting, and it wouldn’t do to let it go to waste.

“I’ll go fetch our coats, shall I?” She gave Mac an exaggerated, conspiratorial wink before sashaying off towards the handsome coat boy she had spotted as she came in, leaving Mac and Helen in conversation and Rodger swaying in his seat as he hurtled towards unconsciousness.

“Off so early Miss?” the coat boy asked, clearly disappointed.

“I’m afraid so, but if you would like to join us, I feel a late-night stroll in the botanical gardens is in order. Perhaps you could liberate some refreshments once your shift is over?”

Having thus made arrangements to avoid becoming a third wheel, Phryne asked her new friend – Peter he told her – to collect their coats, including Helen’s wrap for good measure. The other two women joined her as he returned, looking nervous and happy and more than ready for adventure.

“Excuse me.” Helen caught Peter’s attention, “there’s a man back there who looks ever so the worse for drink. Perhaps someone should remove him before he embarrasses himself.”

Mac and Phryne shared an amused glance – Helen was clearly their kind of woman. It was also clear to see that Mac was smitten with her already. It was nice to know that even if Phryne had to leave her sisters behind, Mac at least was far from alone. Her best friend had a journey of her own to undertake, and from the way she and Helen kept looking at each other covertly, then looking away and blushing, it was an adventure she was going to very much enjoy.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> 


End file.
